


love is a reflex (it's what we do)

by atlasmonster



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, can you call it 'falling' when everybody else knows youve long since fallen?, whatever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:04:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4413149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlasmonster/pseuds/atlasmonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Pilates?” Emma repeats.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>“Mhmm,” Henry sips at his drink again.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>“Anything else?” Emma’s not sure she’s flexible enough for pilates. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> or, Emma ambushes Regina's morning runs, and at first she tries to blame it on the endorphins, but maybe, just maybe she finds herself falling in love</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fits somewhere into S4/5, but maybe just possibly ignores the whole Emma and her potential for all-consuming darkness thing or maybe it’s after it who knows. Don’t ask me what’s happening. I was just running last night, and then I was writing so-

The first time she tries to ask him, Emma chickens out at the last second.

“Hey, kid?”

Henry looks up from the book he’s hunched over. They’re sitting in the diner waiting for their dinner, because it’s Emma’s week with Henry and, well, Emma can’t cook. Henry’s reading god-knows what, but she’s pretty sure it’s research to do with the author and the kid’s other mother’s elusive happy ending because every now and then he takes studious notes in a pad that has _Operation Mongoose_ written neatly down the spine. Not that he lets her read anything, instead, covers the notes with his free hand as if she’s trying to peak- okay so maybe she is but- _so_ not the point.

He’s looking at her now, waiting for her to talk.

“So I was wondering, you know, since you’re her son and all,” that earns her an eye roll, and Emma resists the urge to shout and point ‘there, see!’ because sometimes she really doubts that the kid isn’t actually in fact 100% Mills. “I wanted to ask- well- I was wondering if-“ 100% Mills is frowning now, his attention solely on Emma and she looks out of the window to avoid his eyes. “-if you could ask your Mom to bring that raspberry pie she bakes to lunch with the grandparents this weekend?” Emma improvises, ignoring how her guts are twisting and her voice pitches up at the end of the sentence.  

Henry blinks and nods, but narrows his eyes at her, and it’s clear he doesn’t believe for a second that _that_ was what Emma wanted to ask

She flaps under his unnerving gaze. “What?” She says, a bit too defensive.

Henry shrugs, eyes her for a moment more, before turning back to his book.

Emma breathes a quiet sigh of relief and tries to figure out why she feels as though she’s just been let off the hook. She tries to figure out at what point Henry started having whole conversations with her non-verbally. She watches as his mannerisms as he flicks through his notes, the way he fiddles with his pencil and the way his writing slants across the page. She watches and allows an affectionate smile to take over her face. _Totally 100% Mills_.

x

It takes Emma another few weeks to work up the courage to ask Henry again. Which is ridiculous, right? Because it’s just the kid, and the kid loves her and she loves him, and she had been getting better at this whole talking thing. And the question she wants to ask? Yeah, it’s _really_ not a big deal. Like, at all.

They’re in the diner again, because Henry didn’t want beans on toast, and Regina was working late. Not that it was Regina’s week, only, somehow the three of them had more often than not ended up sitting around the table at 108 Mifflin Street during designated Emma-weeks. Emma’s not complaining, rather, she’s in heaven. Regina’s food trumps Granny’s any day (not that she’d _ever_ say that to either woman), and the kid seems happy, with both his parents sat at the table devoting all their attention towards him. Well, mostly. But she tries not to think about the _not mostly_ parts.

Emma drums her fingers against her thigh and definitely _does not_ to let her mind latch onto that train of thought. Because each time it happens, when Henry leaves something essential at the house and they make a spontaneous trip back, Regina opens the front door and Emma has to tamp down the fluttering in her chest. The fluttering part of her that’s yearning for _home._

Storybrooke is supposed to be home for her, now. But sometimes when she’s alone in the new flat, away from Mary Margaret and David and the kidlet, and when it’s Henry’s week at Regina’s, and she’s by herself- yeah, maybe it feels a little like the old days. And she stares and stares and stares up at the ceiling and counts the cracks- because it doesn’t feel quite like home, not really. Except sometimes when it does. Sometimes when it’s those _not mostly_ parts where she catches Regina’s eye over the dinner table, and Henry is bouncing between them (he’s not quite hit the monotonous teenager phase yet, thank god) and something seems to just click.

So, yeah, it doesn’t help that their friendsnow, or that Henry will pick up the scent of lasagne in the oven and turn to his Mom with his best puppy dog eyes that he knows she can’t refuse, and it doesn’t help that Regina then turns to Emma with wide eyes and a questioning tilt of her head that Emma’s quickly discovering _she_ can’t refuse, and it doesn’t help that they all file back into the house and set the table in a way that’s becoming so familiar and so routine it makes Emma’s chest physically ache.

It doesn’t help that she’s started to figure out that she wants what she can’t have.

She sighs, but stops her self-absorbed pondering a few moments too late because Henry’s already looking at her instead of his comic. Trust her to have such an intuitive kid. She smiles, too bright, too false, and Henry takes pity on her.

“What is it, Ma?” He asks.

“Huh?” Emma tries and fails to act natural.

“You’ve been fidgeting the whole time we’ve been in here, and now you’ve got the same creepy smile you had on a couple of weeks back when you asked me to talk to Mom about the pie,”

Emma scowls. “Do not,”

“Do too,”

“Do not!”

Henry snickers. “Totally do,”

“So I asked about the pie, big deal.” Emma sulks because she’s essentially a 5 year old trapped in an adult body.

“You asked about the pie, even though you _knew_ she was already bringing it, because _you_ were the one that asked Grandma to ask Mom because you didn’t want Mom to know it was really you who wanted the pie, you know, after that time where she mocked you for your love of baked goods? But the whole thing was pointless anyway because _of course_ Mom knew that Grandma was only asking on behalf of you, so _really-_ “

“Alright, alright!” Emma cuts him off with a grumble.

“So,” Henry says with a satisfied smile, and Emma thinks _Mills Mills Mills_. “What do you _actually_ want?”

Emma sighs. “Nothing, kid. Forget I asked.”

“But you didn’t ask anything,”

“Yeah, well,” Emma huffs. “It’s not important.”

Henry’s silent for a while and Emma naively thinks she’s home free.

“Wait!”

Emma jumps as Henry gleeful shout hits her ear drums. “Kid, lower the volume a little, would you?”

“Sorry,” Henry mutters although he doesn’t look so sorry. Instead he looks as though he’s just figured it all out. Which is a little terrifying. “This is about my Mom, isn’t it?”

Emma’s blush answers for her.

“Emma,” Henry says, and now she feels like she’s being patronised. By her very own kid. “If you want to ask my Mom something, you need to talk to her in person, instead of asking other people to ask her stuff. It would be nice, you know? To have more people just _talk_ to her.” He says the last part of the sentence so gently and sincerely and with such hopeful eyes that Emma feels her heart well up with love.

“Henry, it’s not so much the asking your Mom something as it is asking something _about_ her,” Emma eventually admits because she wants to reassure the kid that she’s not afraid to talk to Regina.

At least, not in that sense anyway, nope, Emma’s becoming more and more afraid to talk to Regina for a much more terrifying reason; she’s developing this _thing_. The kind of pathetic, torturous _feelings_ thing that makes her entire body blaze at the very thought of the woman. And okay, so maybe it’s not a new thing. Her feelings towards Regina have always been complicated- angry and frustrating and begrudgingly respectful, even grateful - but realising how much she cares? How much she _wants_? _goddamn it-_ it’s like driving a fucking tanker of oil into an already roaring fire.

 “What do you want to ask about her?” Henry’s suspicious, and Emma squirms.

She fiddles with the napkin in her hands, the one that’s been fiddled with so much it’s nearly disintegrated, before she finally blurts out, “Does your Mom exercise?”

It turns out she’s beaten Henry at his game, because whatever it was he thought she was going to ask, it wasn’t that. Small wrinkles settle on his forehead where he’s frowning.

“Exercise?” He asks, an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, you know? Gym, weights, cardio, all that jazz,” Emma rattles on. “Does she do it?”

“Why?”

“I was just wondering,” Emma says, shrugging to prove her point.

“I don’t ‘just wonder’ about your exercise routines,” Henry says, doubtful.

“Geez, kid. I was just asking. No crime there, right?”

He narrows his eyes even more.

“So?” Emma asks again, because it’s out now and there’s no point backing down. “She must exercise, right? Some kind of workout, because there’s no way she gets a body like that from sitting at her desk all day, even if those heels she wears must be doing _things_ to her calves-“ Emma stops short, abruptly aware of who her audience is.

Henry is smirking at her like he knows something she doesn’t. _Worrying._

“What?” Emma says, wary of his look.

Henry considers her for a moment, taking a long drag on the straw of the milkshake he’d wrangled out of her. He makes a show of slurping up the drink, before he picks up his comic again. He reads for a good 30 seconds, and Emma wonders if she should prompt him again, when suddenly he says, “She does pilates.”

“Pilates?” Emma repeats.

“Mhmm,” Henry sips at his drink again.

“Anything else?” Emma’s not sure she’s flexible enough for pilates.

“She runs,” Henry says, nonchalant.

Emma’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “I’ve never seen her out running,”

“She goes early,” Henry says, and Emma’s instantly suspicious because it’s like the kid knows exactly where this conversation is headed.

That doesn’t stop her from asking though. “How early?”

Henry drops his comic shut on the table and clasps his hands in front of him, fixing Emma with his best _serious_ face. “6.” He answers, or rather, _challenges._

Emma tries to hide her wince. “That early, huh?”

“Yep,” Henry says, still staring.

“Okay, that’s cool,” Emma tries to shrug the conversation off, whilst she wonders whether her body will forgive her if she gets up at the crack of dawn to go running with Regina. “So, what d’you want to do this evening, kid?”

But Henry ignores her question in favour his own. “Why do you want to know what time my Mom runs, Emma?”

There’s something about the way that Henry says _my Mom_ that has her insides warm. It’s soft, but fierce, and suddenly the kid is only 70% Mills, and a strong 30% Swan. Okay, make that 75 to 25, because Henry’s staring at her the way she’s seen him analysing the chess board. Regina has been teaching him how to play, and on Sunday evenings, when Emma comes round to pick Henry up for the week, she’ll usually find them sat across from each other at the dining room table. Henry watching the board, Regina watching Henry. Emma will sit and watch both of them, (well, _mostly)_ , getting hissed at and swatted away by Regina when she tries (and fails) to sabotage the game by taking the white knight piece and knocking the black queen on her ass.

“I don’t know,” Emma’s cheeks are warm and she makes a point to look around to see if their food will be coming any time soon. “I just- I was thinking, because I run as well right? I could, maybe, possibly go running with her?” Emma lets out, anxious and embarrassed. 

“You want to exercise with my mom?” Henry is asking, slowly, his face screwed up in confusion, and Emma momentarily panics that Henry has gotten the wrong end of the stick, and thinks that exercise is a code word for something decidedly more R-rated (not that Emma would object to something decidedly more R-rated, but she is _not_ opening _that_ can of worms right now), before she realises the kid is just the kid, and his emphasis was more on the ‘with’ part.

“Yeah, _with_ your mom. That’d be nice, right? She’d have a jogging buddy or whatever,” Emma smiles brightly.

Henry’s still studying her, and Emma feels like she’s waiting for approval. Which is absurd, because she’s the parent and he’s the offspring, not the other way around. Henry takes a while, regardless, and Emma can almost see his mind at work – trying to work out the moves and motivations behind Emma’s questions. But whatever his conclusion, it must be affirmative, because all at once Henry’s posture relaxes and he shifts from slightly-terrifying-interrogator, to adorable-but-spoilt-brat.

“Cool,” he grins. “Can I have another milkshake?”


	2. Chapter 2

It takes her a while to become aware of the buzzing on her bed side table. But when it slowly dawns on her what the buzzing means, Emma feels her brain lurch.

“Fuck,” she mumbles, scrambling blindly in the dark for her cell. She hits the dismiss button and squints at the time on the screen. _05.49. I’m gonna be late._

It’s her own fault really. She’d not been able to sleep the night before, and it had taken a long time for her to realise it was because she was nervous. The Saviour, sleepless over a running date with Regina Mills. Not that it was a date, per say. Regina had no idea that she was going to be ambushed, therefore it really most definitely was _not_ a date.

Emma had talked to Henry about it again the night before, just to make sure he wasn’t messing with her. But no, there was no way this was an elaborate ruse on the kid's part to get Emma out of the house before 6am. Not with the way he was bouncing off the walls of the bug as she drove them over to Regina’s on Sunday evening.

“We should name it,” he says.

“Name what?” Emma asks, only half paying attention as she messes with the car radio that has stopped working, again.

“The new operation,” Henry replies, looking over at Emma with an eager smile.

“What new operation?” Emma briefly wonders if she’s been kept out of the loop of some new Disney disaster.

“You running with Mom. Duh.” Henry says, exasperated.

_Oh._ Emma feels embarrassed for reasons much too complicated to consider, all over again. “It’s not an operation, Hen. It’s just running.”

“Well can I tell her that you’ll be meeting her tomorrow morning then?”

“No!” Emma says, far too quickly.

“Then it is an operation,” Henry says in smug reply.

“No, it’s not.” Emma says, giving up on the radio. Operations were a big deal. Which this was not. Operations were things like curse breaking kisses or happy endings and second chances, of which Emma’s pathetic attempt to befriend Regina through her exercise routine was not. Not at all. This was not an operation.

“It is.” Henry states. “It’s covert- because we’re not telling Mom, and it’s organised-“ Henry gives her a sceptical look which suggests that he knows Emma’s basically going to wing it tomorrow. “And most of all, it’s doing good.”

Emma takes her eyes off the road to look at Henry then. The boy who turned up on her doorstep all those years ago looks hopefully back at her.

“Things aren’t that simple, kid, remember?”

“Don’t patronise me, Ma, I know things aren’t going to be that simple.” Henry says in disdain, and Emma chuckles loudly. “Besides, that’s not what I meant and you know it. Stop trying to change the subject.”

Emma doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at her kid, _their kid_.

“My apologies,” she says.

Henry eyes her like he isn’t sure if he’s being mocked or not, but eventually he carries on. “What I meant, was that this is like a sub-operation, under Operation Mongoose, because it’s all part of finding Mom’s happy ending. You running with her is a good thing. Running is, like, good, Ma- it gets your whole body working and you know- fresh air and all that,” He waves his hand vaguely and Emma remembers his first bumbling attempts at joining in with the sports teams whilst they were in New York. He’d been all legs, no control whatsoever. He’s leaner now, better coordination and confidence, and Emma’s been practicing passes so he has a shot at the soccer team this term. “So it’s a sub-operation.”

Emma sighs, “Henry-“

“You know, running promotes _friendship_ ,” he interrupts with a sly look and Emma scowls slightly, and then swallows. Because this is a big deal. It was alright her joining the cause, it was alright when Operation Mongoose was just about finding the author, and happiness, and Regina having a _choice-_ \- but the implication that she’s a part of it, that elusive happy ending? The way Henry looks like he knows things that make her insides twists and her heart beat and beat and _beat,_ and the way _friendship_ really doesn’t mean friendship at all? It’s a big deal.

Emma flexes her hands on the steering wheel and eventually gives the kid a weak smile. “Okay,”

“Okay,” Henry agrees.

 

 

After that, she hadn’t been able to sleep. Henry had declared he needed more time to come up with a sub-operation name, “these things can’t be rushed, Emma,” and then she’d had an awkward and stilted conversation at the door with Regina, and declined her offer of dinner, muttering some excuse about having plans of her own. _On a Sunday evening, good one, Swan._ Regina had frowned, but accepted her excuses nonetheless, giving her a soft smile before bidding her goodnight. Back in her flat, Emma had paced around her bedroom, torn through her entire wardrobe in search of something more appropriate to wear than the tank and shorts she’d usually don for a run, wondering why on earth she had ever thought that this was a good idea.

Now here she is, stumbling down the street, struggling into a tattered hoodie as she goes. She gets to the mansion at just gone 5 past, and Regina is nowhere in sight.

“Fuck,” Emma mutters again, looking around her before setting off again down the road, in the blind hope that it was the direction Regina had gone. She scans the side streets as she jogs, her body easing into a steady rhythm. It’s nearly 15 past when she finally spies Regina, the only moving body on a deserted street.

“Hey!” Emma shouts, but Regina evidently doesn’t hear her. “Regina!” Emma tries again, and up ahead, the brunette misses a stride and looks about but carries on running. It occurs to Emma that she might have headphones in.

Emma groans and increases her effort, sprinting the final hundred or so metres until she draws level. She puts a hand on Regina’s shoulder but before she can say ‘hi’, Regina whips round, grabbing Emma’s arm and twisting it until she’s bent over gasping at the pain that shoots up her shoulder.

“Ow ouch, hey! Come on R’gina it’s me!” The hands holding her release her instantly and her assailant steps back.

“Miss Swan!” Regina hisses in confusion. 

"Christ, where did you learn how to do that?" Emma mutters, mostly to herself.

In any case, Regina ignores her grumbling. “What on earth are you doing?” 

Emma straightens up and winces at the pain that greets that movement. “Running?” She tries.

“Yes,” Regina huffs impatiently, pulling out her earbuds. “I can see that. What I mean is what are you doing _here?_ ”

Emma stalls and tries to remember what excuse she was gunning for last night. “Uh- well, see I was running-”

“We've established that,” Regina says, eyes flickering up and down Emma’s body and suddenly Emma feels conscious of her outfit.

“-and I saw you,” Emma’s cheeks are warming and it has nothing to do with her impromptu sprint and maybe a little bit to do with how Regina’s leggings cling to her thighs, “and thought I could catch up.” Emma says with a hopeful smile.

Regina frowns, because Emma hasn’t exactly explained what’s she’s doing there, rather, she’s just stated the obvious. But whatever barbed response she was going to reply with dies on her lips when Emma moves her arm a little and gasps at the shock of pain that accompanies the movement.

“Are you alright?” Something that looks could pass for concern flits across Regina’s face before it’s gone again.

“Yeah, fine,” Emma says, massaging her arm a little.

“Well,” Regina sniffs. “You should know better than to creep up on someone listening to music and running alone in the dark.”

“Yeah I know, I’m sorry. I just wanted to catch up with you, I didn’t consider the possibility of being attacked.”

“I didn’t attack you, you attacked me,” Regina retorts.

“ _I_ didn’t attack you, I just touched you-”  

“-whilst I was hearing impaired and jogging alone in the dark, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t see the need to apologise for my actions,”

“Okay, sheesh,” Emma holds her hands up in defeat. “I’m sorry,”

Regina opens and shuts her mouth, nostrils flaring, apparently not sure how to respond. “Yes, well, have a nice run, Miss Swan,” she eventually says, and turns to go.

“Wait,” Emma grabs her arm, and Regina stops and looks down at where Emma’s fingers have a light grip on her wrist.

“What?”

“Well, y’know,” Emma doesn’t let go of her arm. Her ears strain to decipher whatever music is still pumping out of Regina's headphones, because _is that Muse-?_ “I was thinking since we’re both here, we could- uh,”

“We could what?”

“You know, run?”

Regina raises an eyebrow. “Run?”

“Yeah, run.”

“I was already running, Miss Swan. That is, until you attacked me,”

“I didn’t- that’s not-“ Emma’s cheeks are red. “Together.” She splutters. “Run together. I mean- people do that,”

“Yes, people do.”

“So..?” It occurs to Emma for the first time that she has no contingency in place for being rejected. Maybe she’ll slink away with her tail between her legs and go back to sleep because, fuck being awake at this hour if she’s not getting any reward. But, Regina doesn’t seem offended by the suggestion, instead she looks vaguely amused.

“So what?” Regina’s toying with her, she has to be.

“You really going to make me ask?”

Regina tilts her head to the side and has never looked less innocent.

Emma blows a breath out through her lips and shakes her head. “May I run with you?”

Regina blinks slowly, and then turns and starts jogging away.

“Wait, is that a yes?” Emma calls after her, dragging her eyes away from Regina’s ass because that is _not_ the point of this outing (well, not really).

“I run, Miss Swan, I don’t chat.” Regina throws back, and Emma quickly breaks into a jog to pull up alongside her.

“Okay,” Emma tries to keep her smile under wraps. “I got it; less talking more running,”

“I’ve yet to see any evidence of that,”

Emma chuckles. “You can put your headphones back in, you know,” she offers, knowing that she must already be cramping Regina’s style.

Regina spares her a glance. “I know.”

But she doesn’t, and Emma smiles and runs.

 

“You know,” Regina says conversationally, which should have set alarm bells off in Emma’s mind, because for the past half hour Regina has been resolutely quiet. “My pilates mat is big enough to fit two,”

Emma stumbles over her own feet. Regina carries on running, smug as always.

“You knew? This whole time?” Emma blurts out, aghast, because this means that Regina _has_ just been messing with her. _Evil._

“Of course,” Regina says. She still hasn’t broken a sweat and it’s mildly frustrating. “Henry doesn’t lie to me, Emma.”

Emma doesn’t have the chance to consider what the thrill that hearing her first name roll of Regina’s tongue so loose and unthinking does to her, because they’ve rounded the street and the glow of the porch light at the mansion has come into view.

“I didn’t ask him to _lie_ for me, not exactly,” Emma backtracks. “I just didn’t tell him to tell you, either,”

“Well, it doesn’t matter either way. Henry is awful at lying, and even worse at acting natural. He was fidgeting so much last night I thought he might explode if he didn’t say something.” Regina finally turns her head to spare Emma a fleeting glance, and Emma doesn’t have to meet her eyes to know that there’s an eyebrow raised at her. “I wonder where he gets it from.”

Emma gasps in mock offense. “You wound me,”

Regina chuckles, her laugh low and throaty, and Emma’s pathetically satisfied that she’s the one who caused it. “Don’t be so dramatic,”

“Said the Evil Queen to the Saviour,” Emma snorts, but she looks over at Regina to check that she hasn’t caused offense, and sees the twitch of her cheeks, which she’s starting to recognise as Regina’s way of trying to fight a smile. Emma looks away again because she’s having thoughts about how absurdly _pretty_ Regina is and how she’d love to _kiss_ the curve of her lips and, _nope-_

She snaps out of it as they slow to a walk and Regina stops at the door of the mansion, Emma following a few steps behind, unthinking. Regina reaches into one of the zip pockets in her running leggings to get the house key and Emma watches the movement of the key sliding into the lock and a thought occurs to her.

“You leave Henry by himself every morning?” She says before her brain catches up with her mouth. Regina turns around and Emma realises that her curious question could have very easily been interpreted as a jab at Regina’s parenting choices. “Wait- I didn’t mean-“

“Relax,” Regina’s face morphs into a light smirk. “I know what you meant.”

“Oh,” Emma exhales. “Good.”

“And in answer to your question, yes, I leave him alone. But he’s old enough now, and he knows the route I run, and how to get in contact with me in the event of an emergency, and what to do in, well-” Regina waves her hand. “A dire _magical_ situation.”

“That’s- that’s good.” Emma doesn’t know what else to say, but privately thinks that she’ll have to talk to Henry about what they’ll do when it’s her week with him.

“Besides,” Regina says idly, “I put an enchantment up around the house when I leave. Nobody can get onto the porch without being _fried._ ” Regina looks a little pleased with herself and Emma’s reminded that this woman was once a feared, murderous queen. She redoubles her efforts not to be aroused by her smile.

“Not completely fried, I hope,”

Regina shrugs.

“Regina!”

“What?” Regina smiles an angelic smile.

“Tell me that the residents of Storybrooke aren’t going to get roasted alive by accidentally stepping on your porch,”

“Why?” Regina takes a step away from the door and a step closer to Emma. “If I say yes will the Sherriff arrest me for my bad behaviour?”

Emma blushes because, well, she’s a perv, and maybe that suggestion comes a little too close to some half-formed fantasies she’d had before the curse broke. And maybe after. And okay so maybe they weren’t _half-formed_ either, but- “ _Regina_ ,” She manages to reprimand, and the Evil Queen disappears with an eye roll.

“Not really roasted,” Regina purrs like Emma’s hung up on the technicalities. “Just a little, ah- _stunned._ ”

Emma doesn’t have time to think about the degree to which she may or may not be turned on right now because another thought occurs to her. “Wait! I’m not fried!”

“Of course not.” Regina says in that tone of voice reserved for when she thinks Emma’s being an idiot for pointing out the obvious. But then she takes a step back and stands stock still, and there’s a pointed silence during which she tries looking everywhere but at Emma.

“But you said _nobody_ could get onto the porch,” Emma says, looking behind her to confirm that she is very much so, on the porch. “And you haven’t taken the enchantment down.”

Regina coughs and Emma notes the way her cheeks are blushing a gorgeous shade of pink.

“No,”

“So, when you said nobody…” Emma’s smile is just a little bit shit-eating.

“Nobody, except you and me,” Regina eventually says, begrudging.

“Me.” Emma repeats, because Regina’s so cute when she’s flustered that it doesn’t occur to her to stop.

“Yes, _you_ , Miss Swan.” Regina says. “If something were to happen to me, or to Henry, I-“ Regina stops short, defences rising. “Well, I wouldn’t trust those idiot Charmings to deal with the situation.”

“I _am_ one of those idiot Charmings, Regina,” Emma says, poking the belly of the beast.

Regina glowers at her for a moment before apparently deciding Emma’s not worth the conversation. She steps further back into the house, hand reaching to shut the door.

“Wait!” Emma sticks her foot against the wood and stops the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” Emma’s trying not to sound desperate but she knows it must come out like that.

“I run at 6am, Miss Swan, not 6.15,”

“Is that a yes?” Emma calls after Regina who’s retreating towards the kitchen.

“ _Yes_ , Emma.” Regina eventually calls. “Now get off the porch before I fry you.” And she flicks her wrist and the door swings shut, leaving Emma ambling back onto the main street, a grin plastered across her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’re all cutie pies, lemme tell you, your feedback is muchly appreciated.  
> This is starting to have a vague plot/plan sort of but not really. At the moment I just want them to run, so they’re gonna run.


End file.
